Fifty Shades of Grace Foley's Diary
by Joodiff
Summary: Did you know that Grace Foley keeps a diary? No? Well she does. T-rated for language and content. No authors were harmed in the writing of this fic. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing!

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**A/N: **_It will p__robably help your enjoyment (?) of this if you're at least on nodding terms with "Bridget Jones's Diary" and/or "Fifty Shades of Grey". Anyway, I'm sorry. I don't know why this happened, it just did. Cookies and commiserations to those who can pick out the lines nicked from E.L. James.  
Special shout-out to CatS81, Never Stop Believing in Love and Gemenied who stoically sat in a London cafe with me while I used the Kindle app on my phone to forcibly share the "best" bits of "Fifty Shades" with them. Sorry 'bout that, ladies. ;)_

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**Fifty Shades of Grace Foley's Diary**

by Joodiff

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**Tuesday 18****th**** July**

_Minutes late for work 26 (v. good), alcohol units 0 (excellent), erotic thoughts about Peter Boyd 46 (better)._

**9.26am** "For God's sake, Grace," Boyd growls at me, "can't you at least occasionally _try_ to be at work on time?"

He's so fierce! My Inner Goddess does a little hop, skip and jump, twirls round the squad room a few times then goes for a quick lie-down. I look at him, as innocent and doe-eyed as I can manage at this time in the morning. Sadly, he doesn't seem to notice. I try a breathy, "Sorry."

He frowns. "You sound a bit hoarse; are you coming down with something? Stella's got some cough mixture somewhere, I think."

What…? Oh. I shake my head. His attention starts to wander, so I lean forwards just a little. That does the trick. He's not gazing lustfully into my obviously stunning blue eyes, but he _is_ looking at me. Well, at bits of me, anyway. I give my Inner Goddess a swift nudge, but she just mutters grumpily and goes to sleep. Which is a shame. Boyd's staring contemplatively down my cleavage whilst I'm busy gleefully noticing that he's accidentally left an extra shirt button unfastened today. I want to lick his chest and –

"Are you _quite_ sure you're not running a temperature?" he asks me, his tone more suspicious than solicitous. "Only you're looking a bit… flushed."

"Menopause," someone mutters under their breath, evidently forgetting that I have very good hearing, but when I look round with a glare everyone is diligently hard at work. I can't even point out just how ridiculous the suggestion is without drawing far too much unwanted attention to my age so I opt for haughty silence and go back to staring at the interesting extra inch or two of exposed skin while Boyd grumbles about… whatever it is he's grumbling about. I'm not listening. I'm thinking about what I could do to him with six feet of washing line and a couple of fur-lined black leather gloves. Or, conversely, what _he_ could do to _me_ with them.

"Are you listening to me?" he asks in that deceptively quiet and mild way he has just before he starts shouting and throwing things.

"Yes," I lie giving him a meek smile. He really would look _very_ decorative stripped and tied to my bed.

"Fuck's sake," he mutters with a shake of his head. To the world in general he announces, "If anyone wants me I'll be in my office trying to persuade the Home Office to send us a psychologist who isn't away with the fairies half the bloody time."

Maybe if I tried really, really hard to annoy him he'd put me over his knee and spank me?

Mmm.

-x-

**10.37am** I wonder if he ever takes his handcuffs home?

-x-

**10.39am** Though, does Boyd actually _have_ handcuffs? Do the senior ranks get issued with handcuffs? It always seems to be Spence who does the handcuffing thing.

-x-

**11.16am** Halfway through the belated morning briefing my Inner Goddess is suddenly wide awake again and doing cartwheels. Boyd has taken his jacket off (hurrah for unexpected heatwaves!) and as he paces up and down in front of the evidence board I can't quite stop noticing the interesting… bulginess… of light grey suit trousers that seem to be just a little _too_ tight in places. My Inner Goddess only stops enthusiastically cartwheeling when I realise he's glowering at me. Over the top of his glasses. I really may have to go and have a little lie-down in my office soon.

I wonder if there's an EU rule prohibiting the wearing of indecently tight trousers in the workplace?

-x-

**1.46pm **It's not that I'm shallow. It's not. And _I'm_ not. I'm a mature, intelligent professional woman with a sterling reputation in my field and a very responsible position in a successful investigative team, and if Peter Boyd wants to sit Right Bloody Next To Me at my desk while he reads my initial musings on Howard Wrightson, chief suspect in the Randal Road case, that's absolutely no problem at all. Really. No problem. Personal space is vastly overrated.

-x-

**1.47pm **He smells nice.

-x-

**1.48pm** _Very_ nice. My Inner Goddess is suddenly jigging about like a hyperventilating Hula dancer.

-x-

**1.51pm** He's smiling at me. Oh God. Justlaymedownonthedeskandtakemenow. Just how bloody obtuse is it humanly possible for a man of Boyd's age to be?

-x-

**3.36pm** I'm sitting in the passenger seat of his car while he rages at every other driver who dares to be on the same stretch of road as us and we're no longer exactly on speaking terms. Why is it _my_ fault our suspect's done a sudden disappearing act? Wherever he's gone, I think my Inner Goddess may have eloped with him. Complete with washing line and black leather gloves.

-x-

**3.37pm** Black leather gloves. Fur-lined. Mmm…

-x-

**3.53pm** He has amazing eyes. Really. They are currently regarding me in a manner that can only be described as baleful. I wish he'd just leap on me. Most of all, though, I wish he'd stop bloody shouting. I roll my eyes at him. "It's _not_ my fault."

"How?" he asks, far too loudly. "How can this _not_ be your fault?"

It might be a _bit_ my fault. I probably shouldn't have called Wrightson's ex-wife for some context and background information. My Inner Goddess has returned and she suddenly decides it's time for a random outbreak of Tourette's.

"So spank me," I say.

_Bemused_ doesn't come close to describing the expression on Boyd's face.

-x-

**3.57pm** Actually, he seems to be getting quiet keen on the idea…

-x-

**4.06pm** Oops. There's almost certainly some kind of Health and Safety rule against this sort of thing.

-x-

**4.16pm** Meep.

-x-

**4.52pm** "Don't tell me you're going to make love to me," I say, egged on by my untrustworthy and lascivious Inner Goddess. "Tell me you don't make love, you fuck… hard."

He looks bewildered. Understatement. "Er…"

"Come on, Boyd," I say, virtually towing him into the house behind me. "Are you a man or a mouse? What on earth's the matter with you?"

He looks as if he's right on the verge of having a serious panic attack. "Um… I'm fifty shades of fucked-up, Grace."

Terrific.

Trying to salvage the situation I give him what I hope is a sultry smile. "Want to see my playroom…?"

-x-

**5.07pm** You wouldn't think a man of his age would have such an impressive turn of speed. Or be so difficult to seize hold of.

Bugger.

-x-

**6.32pm** I mean, what does he expect to happen when he swaggers about oozing testosterone all over the place? I'm not a bloody nun!

-x-

**7.09pm** Wine. Wine is always the answer. Particularly when the question involves the name 'Boyd'.

-x-

**11.23pm** Lovethelovelymerlot. Room spinning slightly. Might call him just to see if he's okay. Only he might be in bed.

-x-

**11.24pm** Naked.

-x-

**11.25pm** Mmm.

-x-

**11.37pm** Stairsarestoosteepsofaislovelycomfy. Ooof.

_- the end -_


End file.
